Kate Mosse - Labyrinth

By nine o’clock, Alice was through the peage and following the signs for the city center. She felt nervous and excited, strangely apprehensive, as she picked her way through gray industrial suburbs and retail parks. She was close now, she could feel it.

The traffic lights turned green and Alice surged forward, carried along by the flow of traffic, driving over roundabouts and bridges, then suddenly in countryside again. Coarse scrub along the rocade, wild grasses and twisted trees blown horizontal by the wind.

Alice cleared the brow of the hill and there it was.

The medieval Cite dominated the landscape. It was so much more imposing than Alice had imagined, more substantial and complete. From this distance, with the purple mountains thrown into sharp relief behind in the distance, it looked like a magical kingdom floating in the sky.

She fell in love immediately.

Alice pulled over and got out of the car. There were two sets of ramparts, an inner and an outer ring. She could pick out the cathedral and the castle. One rectangular, symmetrical tower, very thin, very tall, stood higher than everything else.

The Cite was set on top of a grassy hill. The slopes swept down to streets filled with red-roofed houses. On the flat land at the bottom there were fields of vines, fig and olive trees, wigwams of heavy ripe tomatoes in rows.

Reluctant to venture closer and risk breaking the spell, Alice watched the sun set, stripping the color from everything. She shivered, the evening air suddenly chill on her bare arms.

Her memory provided the words she needed. To arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.

For the first time, Alice understood exactly what Eliot had meant.

Paul Authie’s legal practice was in the heart of the Basse Ville of Carcassonne.

His business had expanded fast in the last two years and his address reflected his success. A building of glass and steel, designed by a leading architect. An elegant walled courtyard, an atrium garden separating the business spaces and corridors. It was discreet and stylish.

Authie was in his private office on the fourth floor. The huge window faced west overlooking the cathedral of Saint-Michel and the barracks of the parachute regiment. The room was a reflection of the man, neat and with a tightly controlled ambience of affluence and orthodox good taste.

The entire outer wall of the office was glass. At this time of day the blinds were drawn against the late afternoon sun. Framed and mounted photographs covered the other three walls, together with testimonials and certificates. There were several old maps, originals, not reproductions. Some depicted the routes of the Crusades, others were illustrations of the shifting historical boundaries of the Languedoc. The paper was yellow and the reds and greens of the ink had faded in places, giving an uneven, mottled distribution of color.

A long and wide desk, designed for the space, was positioned in front of the window. It was almost empty, except for a large leather-rimmed blotter and a few framed photographs, one a studio portrait of his ex-wife and two children. Clients were reassured by evidence of stability and family values, so he kept it on display.

There were three other photos: the first was a formal portrait of himself, at twenty-one, shortly after his graduation from the Ecole Nationale d’Administration in Paris, shaking hands with Jean-Marie Le Pen, the leader of the Front Nationale; the second was taken at Compostella; the third, taken last year, showed him with the abbot of Citeaux, among others, on the occasion of Authie’s most recent, and most substantial, donation to the Society of Jesus.

Each photograph reminded him of how far he had come.

The phone on his desk buzzed. “Oui?” His secretary announced his visitors had arrived. “Send them up.”

Javier Domingo and Cyrille Braissart were both ex-police. Braissart had been dismissed in 1999 for excessive use of force when questioning a suspect, Domingo a year later on charges of intimidation and accepting bribes. The fact that neither had served time was thanks to Authie’s skillful work. They’d worked for him since then.

“Well?” he said. “If you’ve got an explanation, this would be the time to share it.” They shut the door and stood in silence in front of his desk. “No? Nothing to say?” He jabbed the air with his finger. “You had better start praying Biau doesn’t wake up and remember who was driving the car.”

“He won’t, sir.”

“You’re suddenly a doctor now, are you Braissart?”

“His condition’s deteriorated during the day.”

Authie turned his back on them, hands on his hips, and stared through the slats and out of the window toward the cathedral.

“Well, what have you got for me?”

“Biau passed her a note,” said Domingo.

“Which has disappeared,” he said sarcastically, “along with the girl herself. Why are you here, Domingo, if you’ve got nothing new to say? Why are you wasting my time?”

Domingo flushed an ugly red. “We know where she is, sir. Santini picked her up in Toulouse earlier today.”

“And?”

“She left Toulouse about an hour ago,” said Braissart. “She spent the afternoon in the Bibliotheque Nationale. Santini’s faxing through a list of the sites she visited.”

“You put a trace on the car? Or is that too much to ask?”

“We did. She is heading for Carcassonne.”

Authie sat down in his chair and stared at them across the expanse of desk. “So you’ll be on your way to wait for her at the hotel, won’t you Domingo?”

“Yes, sir. Which h-”

“Montmorency,” he snapped. He put his fingers together. “I don’t want her to know we’re watching her. Search the room, the car, everything, but don’t let her know.”

“Are we looking for anything other than the ring and the note, sir?”

“A book,” he said, “about so high. Board covers, held together with leather ties. It’s very valuable and very delicate.” He reached into a file on his desk and tossed a photograph across the desk. “Similar to this one.” He gave Domingo a few seconds to look, then slid the photo back toward himself. “If there’s nothing else…”

“We also acquired this from a nurse in the hospital,” Braissart said quickly, holding out a slip of paper. “Biau had it in his pocket.”

Authie took it. It was a recorded delivery receipt for a package posted from the central post office in Foix late on Monday afternoon to an address in Carcassonne.

“Who’s Jeanne Giraud?” he said.

“Biau’s grandmother, on his mother’s side.”

“Is she now,” he said softly. He reached forward and pressed the intercom on his desk. “Aurelie, I need information on a Jeanne Giraud. G-i-r-a-u-d. Lives in rue de la Gaffe. Soon as you can.” Authie sat back in his chair. “Does she know what’s happened to her grandson?”

Braissart’s silence answered his question. “Find out,” he said sharply. “On second thoughts, while Domingo is paying Dr. Tanner a visit, get over to Madame Giraud’s house and look around-discreetly. I’ll meet you in the car park opposite the Porte Narbonnaise in”-he glanced at his watch-“thirty minutes.”

The intercom buzzed again.

“What are you waiting for?” he said, dismissing them with his hand. He waited until the door had closed before he answered.

“Yes, Aurelie?”

His hand went to the gold crucifix at his neck as he listened.

“Did she say why she wanted the meeting brought forward an hour? Of course it’s inconvenient,” he said, cutting off his secretary’s apologies. He pulled his mobile phone from his jacket pocket. There were no messages. In the past, she’d always made contact direct and in person.